


Your Best Shot

by vintagecassette



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: A little canon dialogue, Alternate ending to "Something To Believe In", Angst, Canon Divergence, Fluff, It's probably safe to assume Jack is having a panic attack, M/M, Oneshot, Self-Doubt, but it works out in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 23:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagecassette/pseuds/vintagecassette
Summary: After Jack gives his "Vote No" speech at the Bowery, he runs off to try and gather his thoughts. Unfortunately, he comes to find that his rooftop is already occupied — and whoever is up here with him definitely isn't Katherine.





	Your Best Shot

Shouting. All around him, shouting. Hands grab at his shoulders, shoving him, pushing him toward money he knows he doesn’t want to take. But it’s in his fist now, pressed against his chest, and for a moment, there’s silence.

“ _Sellout_ ,” someone hisses. The word shoots through Jack’s brain like a bullet, freezing him where he stands.

There’s adrenaline pulsing through his veins. It’s thick and it hums and it fills every inch of him, and Christ, he needs to get out of here, but someone makes the mistake of tapping him on the shoulder before he can stitch his thoughts together. He whips around reflexively, raising an arm at the offender.

It’s Les.

He almost took a swing at Les.

The Bowery descends into chaos.

Newsies fly in every direction — a sea of hats and frowns and frenzied eyes — and in the middle of it all stands a single figure, marooned in the maelstrom. His mouth is just barely ajar, his eyes full of some horrible amalgam of betrayal and desperation. Something in Jack’s chest feels like it’s about to shatter. He’s glued to the ground, but Davey must not be; he sets his jaw and turns on his heel, instantly getting swallowed up by the crowd.

“Davey —” Jack tries, but it’s quiet, far too quiet to be heard in the midst of this uproar. He wants to hit something. He wants to scream. Instead, he settles for storming off as fast as his legs will take him.

Hot July air makes it feel like he’s trudging through boiling water, but he pushes forward. His mind is racing. His lungs are fit to burst from the pressure. He winds through alleyways and hops tipped trash cans without so much as a glance in their direction, navigating without thought, desperate to get away. Nobody is chasing him, but that doesn’t matter.

His hand finds the rung of a ladder. The metal is rusted, just barely cool to the touch. He grips it hard for a moment; when it does nothing to ground him, he gives up and starts to climb. Hand over hand over hand over hand, he scales the building, hoists himself over the rooftop — and stops dead.

He’s not the only one up here.

Jack straightens up as quietly as he can and squints. It’s not exactly bright on this roof — the only real light comes from an open window a short ways away — but he can still make out a lanky silhouette with its back to him at the corner of the roof. There’s something in his hands… a piece of paper? And suddenly Jack’s surprise is swept away and replaced with fury, because this guy has no right to be looking at those. A moment later, he realizes who the figure is; it sends his heartbeat into overdrive.

“ _Davey._ ” It’s not a question.

The figure turns around, and Jack’s hypothesis is confirmed. Davey jumps, a deep crease in his brow, as he fumbles with the papers.

“Those ain’t yours,” Jack growls, snatching them with such force they nearly tear. His fingers tremble as he tries to roll them back up. “How’d ya even —”

“Find this place?” Davey finishes for him. “Specs told me. He figured you’d come here.”

“Well, good for him,” Jack says. He’s growing more and more frustrated as each attempt to jam the papers back into their tube results in failure. “Guess he was right.”

Davey takes one look at Jack and reaches carefully out to take the sheets away from him. Jack lunges in protest, but Davey holds them just out of his reach. “This… this is the Refuge, isn’t it?” He’s peering down at the drawings again like they’re the real thing. It fills his eyes with storm clouds. “Is this really where they took Crutchie?”

Instead of responding, Jack clenches his teeth and grabs at the papers a second time, succeeding at stuffing them unceremoniously into their metal container.

“It’s horrible,” Davey says softly. “All those rats, and boys crammed into the beds like that…”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Jack mutters. He kicks at the tube and started to pace, following a well-worn trail back and forth across a small patch of roof. His hat is swept off his head; a hand rakes through his hair; the hat goes back on; his fingers curl into fists; they straighten back out. He can’t keep still. “Why’s you even here?”

Davey drags his palms nervously along the fabric of his pants. “I…”

“Wanna chew me out about the rally?” Jack demands, coming to a halt and trying his damndest to look Davey in the eye. “Go ahead.” Suddenly, he remembers the stack of cash in his pocket; he pulls it out without thinking, then drops it like it’s burned his hand.

“You’re working with Pulitzer,” Davey says. His eyes are turned down toward the money between them. “I want you to tell me why.”

Jack’s fingers jump up to worry at the bottom button of his vest. “It ain’t like that,” he says, but it _is_ like that. “Katherine’s the one goin’ around stabbin’ us in the backs —”

“This isn’t about Katherine,” Davey says sharply. “Not right now. This is about _you,_ and I want an explanation.”

An explanation? How in hell can Jack even begin to explain this? Even with the cards Pulitzer pulled, Jack still agreed to comply. That won’t excuse what he’s done.

“You gonna say anything?” Davey asks.

“What d’you want me to say?”

“Anything.” There’s a hint of desperation underlying his anger that’s almost too subtle to catch. “Anything that’ll explain why you’re working with _Pulitzer_ , after everything he did to us!”

If Jack’s nerves were on edge before, this only increases the restlessness tenfold. “Guess he cut me a deal I couldn’t refuse,” he lies, suddenly defensive. “You know how much I love t’ pal around with the enemy. ‘Specially after he threatened me with Crutchie’s life, y’know, I jus’ couldn’t help but accept this stinkin’ wad o’ cash —”

In an instant, Davey has grabbed hold of Jack’s collar. They’re almost nose to nose, breathing hard, each filled with so many tangled emotions they might explode if something doesn’t happen soon.

“Are you listening to yourself?” Davey fumes. There’s a fire in his eyes that Jack’s never seen before. “Somebody should smack some sense into you!”

“Go ahead,” Jack says. He deserves this. He must deserve it. “Gimme your best shot.” All the boys think he’s a traitor, it doesn’t matter that he was trying to protect them. He’s working for the man he swore to take down; someone’s got to make him pay. “Just _do it_.”

The hand on Jack’s collar yanks him hard, but instead of clocking him, Davey surges forward and kisses him square on the lips.

This really isn’t how Jack thought their encounter would go.

His hands fly up reflexively, and though he wants to cup Davey’s face with them, he presses them into loose fists and pulls back. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says in a rush. “That — what — you —”

There’s a flush in Davey’s cheeks, but his gaze is focused and determined. “You gotta swear you didn’t do it for the money.”

“What?” Jack barely remembers what they were talking about thirty seconds before. His thoughts are jumbled up in his head.

“The money,” Davey repeats, nudging the almost forgotten stack between them with the tip of his shoe. “Why’d you take it? What was the deal?”

“There — I couldn’t do nothin’ else,” Jack says. His lips still feel warm. It’s distracting. “He had me pinned.”

Davey can tell he’s leaving something out. He shakes his head just a little and says, “You don’t strike me as one to cave under a little pressure from somebody higher up.”

“I told you, it ain’t like that.” Jack sticks his hands in his pockets to disguise the fact that they’re still trembling.

“Then what’s it like?”

Jack exhales, letting a out big puff of air to fill the time as he thinks. He casts his eyes toward the sky (where it’s too cloudy to see the stars) and bites his lip. “It don’t matter,” he decides.

“Wh — it really does, Jack,” Davey says, tone bordering on incredulous. “Half the newsies in the Bowery thinks you betrayed them, there’s… there’s gotta be some reason you did this.”

“Let’s say I betrayed ‘em, then,” Jack says to the clouds. “If it keeps Snyder from gettin’ his filthy paws on those boys, then — like I said — _it don’t matter_.”

“So you did it for the boys.”

“I did it for you,” Jack says. Then, catching himself, he continues: “For all o’ you.”

Davey takes a small step forward (which, considering the length of his legs, is actually a pretty big step; he’s only a few feet away from Jack now). “I still think there’s somethin’ you’re not telling me.” He pretends to ignore the way Jack sidles away as he comes closer.

“Pulitzer’s a persuasive fella,” Jack says, dodging the question. “He knows a weak spot when he sees one.”

“And what was your weak spot?” Davey’s eyebrows are raised in that infuriatingly curious way of his, and Jack finally surrenders.

“He was gonna get you an’ Les locked up,” he mumbles. “In the Refuge. The rest o’ the boys, too, but… I dunno, I jus’ thought about losin’ you, and I… I made my choice, Davey.”

For a short while, there’s silence. Jack takes a moment to grasp the railing unsteadily and lean slightly over it, noting that it’s cooler up here than it was on the streets; a slight breeze has picked up that might be enough to give tree branches a decent rustle if there were any nearby. The rooftop is too high to let him hear any of the city commotion below. He’s grateful for that.

“You did it for Les and me?” Davey finally asks.

Jack shrugs. _Just you, really,_ he thinks, but he’d never say it out loud.

“You coulda told me,” Davey says, “at the Bowery. Why’d you have to give a speech like that?”

“What are you, stupid?” Jack asks. He rolls his eyes when Davey just blinks at him. “We was packed in there like lambs to the slaughter. Pulitzer had eyes on every corner o’ that rally — he’d’a noticed me talkin’, and Snyder woulda been in there faster than you’s can say Refuge.”

“But —”

“There ain’t no buts!” Jack can feel his heart rate picking up again as he relinquishes his hold on the railing and whips around. “If we keep strikin’, Pulitzer keeps pushin’. A few hundred ants ain’t enough to stop an elephant, Davey. He’ll stomp us all into the dirt just like he’s been doin’, and there’s no way we’s gonna last longer than him an’ his damn bulls.”

Davey lets a short beat hang in the air. His eyes flicker over Jack’s restless, fidgeting fingers and heaving chest. “You’re right,” he says. “A hundred ants would never be enough.”

“So… what, you’s agreein’ with me?”

“Of course a few hundred would lose,” Davey says, clearly building up to something, “but a few _thousand_ would knock that elephant right off its feet.”

Jack shifts his weight back and forth between his legs. “The hell are you tryin’ t’say?” He watches warily as Davey pulls a folded square of notepad paper from his pocket, steels himself, and begins to speak.

“‘For the sake of all the kids in every sweatshop, factory, and slaughter house in New York,’” he reads, “‘I beg you… join us.’”

Jack blinks. “Wh — those is —”

“Your words,” Davey finishes, folding the paper back up. “Katherine gave them to me, she said they might help —”

“What, so _she_ sent you to come an’ find me?”

“No!” Davey is growing noticeably exasperated. “I told you I asked Specs myself. But Kath had an idea, and I think it’s a pretty good one —”

“An’ does it involve double crossin’ us again?”

“Would you just let me talk —”

“‘Cause I’m not so sure we oughta be consortin’ with her after all’s she did —”

“She didn’t double cross us, she’s trying to help —”

“She never even thought t’ mention she’s Pulitzer’s _kid!_ ”

“Jack.”

“I mean, we trusted her, but for all we knows she could jus’ be another one o’ his — his _cronies_ —”

“ _Jack._ ”

“An’ now you’s tryin’ to talk me into somethin’ _else_ after I jus’ ruined everythin’ with them boys an’ they ain’t even gonna _trust_ me no more ‘cause I’m so —”

Jack has enough steam in him to rattle on for hours, but all the words on his tongue are cut off as Davey’s lips meet his for a second time. His brain is shouting at him to stay angry, to pull back again, but he can’t help the way one of his hands comes up to settle on Davey’s cheek, can’t help the way his eyes drift closed. He leans into it, just for a moment — the warmth, the bitterness, the confusion — then gently breaks away.

“You gotta stop doin’ that,” he says to the ground. His hand doesn’t move, and neither does Davey.

“Sorry.”

 _Don’t be,_ Jack thinks, but he can’t get the words out. He doesn’t want Davey to stop doing that. “No,” he says instead, turning back toward the railing and grasping it tight. “No, _I_ am. I jus’… I can’t lose anyone else.” He hates how pathetic that sounds.

“You won’t,” Davey says, his voice soft. “I told you there was a plan, didn’t I?”

Jack lets out a sigh. “I ain’t so sure I wanna hear it.”

“Well, you’re gonna.” He’s got the square of paper in his hand again, and Jack swears he can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s called the Children’s Crusade.”

“I —”

“Let me finish,” Davey tells him, waving the paper in Jack’s direction. “When Katherine gave this to me — hey, I said _let me finish_ — she told me she could publish it. Like a rallying call for all the kids in Manhattan, all the kids in _New York._ I think if we pair it with one of your drawings —”

Jack steps defensively in front of the metal tube that holds them. “Those ain’t up for grabs,” he says. “An’ I don’t know if —”

“Jackie,” Davey says, and the argument dies in Jack’s mouth. “This strike isn’t just about the newsies anymore. It’s about every last kid in New York who’s out there working, when they should be at home with their folks. If we all come together and demand our basic rights — I mean, think about it. There’s gotta be thousands of us, we’d shut down half the state! There’s no way Pulitzer could ignore that!”

There’s a glint in Davey’s eyes. They glitter with sheer excitement as they search Jack’s face for any indication that he’s willing to go along with this, and Jack just watches him, thinking, mulling over what he’s said so hard that the gears in his brain must be sparking as they grind together.

There are two ways this could go: very well or very poorly. He’s already seen the lowest end of that spectrum, and it showed him Crutchie, beaten and bloody and dragged away. Can he really go through that again, just on the off chance that some stingy old man might let him hang onto a few dimes a day if they win?

“Hey,” Davey says, drawing him from his thoughts. “I know what you must be thinking.”

“Y’know, I really don’t think you do,” Jack says flatly. “You saw those sketches. Terrible, right? Rats, dirt, holes in the walls, all o’ that.”

“Yeah…?”

“Well that ain’t the worst of it.” Jack’s knuckles have gone white around the railing. “I’ve seen kids die in there, Davey. There ain’t enough food t’ go around. It’s wet, an’ it’s cold, an’ half the boys get so sick they can’t hardly walk. One day, you’s givin’ your rations t’ some twelve-year-old with a missin’ tooth — the next, his bed is empty, an’ there’s some new schmuck in his place.”

“Then we have to tell people!” Davey insists. He’s trying to make Jack look him in the eye. “We can’t let an institution that… that _horrible_ stay open if all it does is make Snyder rich! It’s a violation of —”

“Do me a favor,” Jack says, “and shut it for a second.” He waits for Davey to stop spluttering before he continues. “If we do this, sure, it could work. But what if it don’t?”

“We won’t know unless we —”

“What if the cops turn back up?” Jack plows on. “Thousands o’ kids floodin’ the streets, and I’d bet you half of ‘em don’t got folks. Hell, Davey, you _do,_ and Pulitzer was still ready to rip you away from ‘em! Who’s t’say this ‘crusade’ o’ yours won’t pack the Refuge even fuller than it is now?”

The expression playing across Davey’s face is one that pulls painfully at Jack’s heart. He thinks about kissing Davey himself just to make that look go away, but he can’t bring himself to let go of his own pain long enough to do it.

“Does anyone else know what it’s like in there?” Davey asks, his voice impossibly gentle.

“It — s’not important.”

“Jack.”

“No.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “No one does.”

Davey takes half a step, then another when Jack doesn’t edge away. He reaches tentatively forward, keeping his eyes on Jack for any indication that he should back off, and slowly takes the other’s hand. Neither of them says anything for a while.

The breeze on the rooftop starts to pick up, turning a once-sweltering summer night into something a little more bearable. Jack turns his face toward it, letting the air wash over him, and tries not to think for a minute. (It doesn’t work; there are too many things to think about. At least he’s starting to calm down.)

“I think it’s worth it,” Davey says quietly, breaking the silence.

Jack doesn’t reply.

“I know you’re worried about the boys.” There’s a “but” coming, Jack can tell. “But it’d be impossible for Snyder to catch that many of us. He’d be outnumbered a hundred to one. And if the crusade works, we could get all the boys who are in the Refuge now _out of it._ If we do this right — Jack, we could get Crutchie back.”

Still, Jack doesn’t speak, but the way he tightens his grip on Davey’s hand is enough to let the other know he’s listening. More than listening, really; he might be about to say yes.

“You wanna keep these kids safe, right?” Davey asks. He’s close enough now that their arms brush together. “What better way to do that than by helping every child in New York make a living wage? You’d be their savior.”

“I don’t wanna be nobody’s savior,” Jack says. Davey just stares at him. He exhales. Drops his chin toward his chest. “I — Y’know what? Fine. Let’s do it.”

In an instant, Davey’s face splits into a grin. His grip on the other’s hand loosens, but Jack only has to wonder why for a millisecond; Davey has thrown his arms around him, nearly launching them both over the railing in his excitement.

“Whoa, hey,” Jack says, scrambling to regain his footing. “Don’t make me take it back.”

“Sorry.” Davey lets him go, still beaming. “You’re not gonna regret this.” He falters slightly as Jack lets out a short laugh. “What’re you giggling about?”

“Nothin’,” Jack says. “It’s just — wasn’t you the one who never even wanted t’strike in the first place?”

“That was before I knew you,” Davey says dismissively.

“I’m, ah, pretty sure we’s known each other for a while.”

“Before I knew you like this,” he clarifies. “You know. As someone who cares so much about a bunch of boys he’d ruin his reputation for them without a second thought.”

“That makes me sound much more excitin’ than I am.”

“I think you’re plenty exciting,” Davey says.

“Yeah, well…” Jack can’t think of much to say to that. He looks down at his hand in Davey’s and reluctantly lets it go, taking a small step back. “Now that we’s got that settled,” he says carefully, “d’ya think maybe we should talk about the, ah…” He makes a vague gesture, pointing between the two of them, and Davey gives a small nod.

“Sure,” he says to the air some two feet to the left of Jack’s head. “I… Well, I didn’t come up here to kiss you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“If we’s bein’ honest, I ain’t sure what I’m thinkin’,” Jack admits. He picks at a patch of fabric on the leg of his pants. “Y’shoulda just punched me.”

The corner of Davey’s mouth quirks upward. “I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” he agrees, looking out over the rooftops. The lights below them reflect in his eyes.

“So… what now?” Jack asks.

“Well, we’ll have to find a printing press,” Davey says matter-of-factly. “There’s gotta be one that Pulitzer doesn’t control. We’ll call all the newsies in once we find it, I’m sure Brooklyn’ll want in on helping us, and then we’ll have to get Katherine to —”

“No, slow down,” Jack says, cutting him off. He’s tugging at the cuff on one of his sleeves. “I — I’m talkin’ about us. What happens wit’ us?”

“Oh.”

“I mean, we ain’t exactly compatible.” Davey looks almost hurt by this, but Jack is unfazed. “You’s smart. You got school t’go to once your folks is sorted out, an’ you got Les t’look after, an’ I’m — you can do better than me.”

“Jack, that’s not —”

“Look me in the eye an’ tell me I’m wrong.”

Without a second’s hesitation, Davey locks eyes with him; the speed with which he does it is almost startling. “You’re wrong,” he says, and he means it. His hands find their way to each of Jack’s cheeks. “You are so wrong, Jack Kelly.”

Jack tries to shrink away, but Davey’s hands, while gentle, hold him in place. “So we’s supposed t’ take Pulitzer down with the power o’ love?” he tries to joke.

“Why not?” Davey chuckles. Jack doesn’t seem convinced.

“I jus’ want this t’work,” he says. He manages to tug his face free and slides down to sit against the railing.

“Of course you do,” Davey says reasonably, joining him on the ground. He pauses for a moment, pensive, drumming his fingers on his bent knee. “We’re gonna win.”

Jack can’t restrain himself from letting his head bang lightly on the railing behind him. Davey Jacobs, ever the optimist, always sure that the facts are on his side. It’s a hard thing for Jack to wrap his head around.

“An’ how d’you know that?” he asks.

“I don’t,” Davey admits. “But I really think we can do this. We’ve got the boys, and we’ve got Kath. That’s enough backup for a small army.”

Jack exhales through his teeth. “How can you believe in somethin’ so much?” he asks, his voice tired.

“Because I believe in _you_ ,” Davey says. He smiles sympathetically when Jack shakes his head. “You started this strike. You gave the newsies a reason to keep fighting. Let’s see it through to the end.” His hand works its way into Jack’s again, but his gaze is trained on the sky.

When Jack tries to open his mouth, no sound comes out. There are too many words in his head, too many thoughts to try and express. He glances over at Davey, who sits quietly with his eyes on the clouds, and manages the ghost of a smile. That knot in his chest is finally beginning to loosen.

 _The Children’s Crusade…_ In full honesty, he still doesn’t think it’s a wise idea. But after seeing that undying certainty in Davey’s expression, he can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, this might work out the way he prays it will.

Jack has something to believe in, too, now that he knows someone — _Davey_ — believes in him. An infinitesimal glimmer of hope has taken root in his chest. If Davey is this certain that the plan will work, then dammit, Jack will just have to follow him blindly until the promise he makes becomes a reality:

They’re gonna finish this strike, and they’re gonna win.

**Author's Note:**

> Something about this scene always felt a little off to me, and the other day, I realized it boiled down to two main issues: 1.) it was WAY too short, and 2.) Katherine just... isn't a great character. So I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone and make it gayer in the process.
> 
> Come yell at me about it on tumblr! @thosemeddlingfandoms


End file.
